Between the Shadows of Great Things
by Godeater
Summary: Hired to find an ancient artifact, Private Investigator Alexander Harris falls into a world where everyone has an agenda, nothing is black and white, and the man who doesn't learn fast lives to regret it.
1. Chapter 1

Sunlight sucks. I'm no vampire, and I don't burst into flames under it, but I still don't like it. It's bright, and it's cheery and it has no respect for people's privacy. It just comes crashing in through the window, expecting you to jump out of bed and thank it for being there. It's rude, and it has no sense of timing. In fact, it's a lot like an irritating relative that drops in unannounced and wants to spend the day with you. Fortunately in Sunnydale, despite the name of the city, sunlight is a distant relative that only comes by on occasions when it really isn't wanted. Like this morning. I've been up for three days and have a hangover that feels like a Hellmouth set up shot in my head.  
  
My name's Alexander Harris. What few friends I have call me Xander. And when I'm not drinking or hungover, the sign above my office says that I'm a private investigator. I'm a snoop, a spy, a thief and a shadow for whoever can pay $30 bucks an hour, plus expenses.  
  
The sunlight streaming in through the window doesn't seem to be in any hurry to leave, so I gingerly extract myself from the couch where I fell asleep. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I take a bleary look at $50 Timex. Quarter past 10 in the morning. An ungodly hour to be awake, if anyone wants my opinion.  
  
I make myself a cup of instant coffee, adding a shot of whiskey for some pep and light my first cigarette of the day. My secretary says if I cut back on the drinking, smoking and the late nights, I'd have movie star good looks. I tell her that there are too many guys walking around with movie star good looks in this town as it is, and I should be congratulated on being distinct. Looking into the mirror over the sink, I look distinctly like a bum. Half a weeks growth on my face, bags you could fit a body in hanging under watery, blood shot eyes, and a general sense of emotional exhaustion radiating from me. In short, I've looked better.  
  
I splash some cold water on my face and do my best to try to look human. A clean shirt only slightly less wrinkled then the one I fell asleep in, and a new tie. It's amazing what some fresh clothes can do for a man. I slip on my shoulder holster, .38 nestling snuggly under my arm, throw worn and comfortable coat on and grab my hat. Giving myself a once over in the mirror by the door, I look pretty good for a guy that spent the last three days living in his car.  
  
Two flights of stairs down, I stop at the door that leads to the reception area of my office. A. Harris, Private Investigation is stenciled in black over the bubble glass window of the door. I pick at a small crack in the glass, and remind myself for the hundredth time to have a guy come fix it.  
  
Tara is sitting at her desk, reading the paper. She looks up when I open the door, and gives me an amused grin, her favorite kind. "It lives!"  
  
"Barely," I mutter, closing the door and walking up to her desk. "Any messages?"  
  
Still smiling at me, Tara shakes her head. "Nope! But a delivery guy came by about half an hour ago with this." She hands me a big manila envelope with "DO NOT BEND. PICTURES INSIDE" stenciled on the front. "Are they what I think they are?"  
  
Tearing open the top, I slide the pictures out and hand them to her. "Yeah. I caught Mrs. Richard Avalon with her hand in the cookie jar."  
  
Tara gave an appreciative whistle as she looked through the pictures. They showed an attractive blond woman, naked, in the embrace of an equally naked, rather muscular, well-endowed man. "That's an impressive cookie she has her hands on."  
  
"Yeah," I agree, taking the pictures back and giving them another look. "Hope he tasted good, cause his cookie is going to cost her a husband." Putting the pictures back into the envelope, I hand them back to Tara. "Give Mr. Avalon a call and tell him I have what he wanted. And remind him we don't take credit cards. I'll be in my office"  
  
"This mean I'll be able to make rent this month?" the blond called at me as I headed toward my office.  
  
"None of your sass!" I shout back at her as I close the door of my office.  
  
My office is rather unimpressive. It boasts four walls and a ceiling, and even those it shouldn't boast about it. Faded red paint covers the walls for the most part, except for three dime sized holes by the door, where a rather angry husband took out his anger of his little Ms.'s infidelities by trying to shoot her in my office. After that, I made it official office policy not to have client and their spouse in my office at the same time. Tara found it funny that it had taken a guy popping a 9mm in to the walls of my office for me to think of that.  
  
My office also has one large window that would give me a fabulous view of the city, if it wasn't blocked by the bar and flop house next door. So, instead of being able to look out the bustling metropolis that is Sunnydale, I get to watch the silhouettes of pervy old men maul 20 year old girls who're never really had a prime. I keep the blinds closed a lot.  
  
I slide into a leather chair that's seen better days and eye the mail Tara has left for me to go through. Electric bill, gas bill, phone bill, rent…on another day the thought of them would have made me go back to bed, but since I was probably going to be able to pay them this month. I give thanks to Ms. Avalon's indiscretions, take my checkbook out of my desk.  
  
A quarter of the way through the bills, I lean back and light a cigarette. I close my eyes and take a weary drag. I watch the smoke make rise, where it will join many of its ancestors in turning the formerly white ceiling a drab yellow. Halfway through the coffin nail, my eyes wander to the only picture on my desk. It was taken 4 years ago, which seems like another lifetime to me. I'm standing outside my office, my arm around my best friend, Jessie Wagner. We have these ridiculous grins on our faces, like we didn't have a worry in the world. Which only proves that how stupid the both of us were.  
  
Jessie and I had known each other since before we could walk. Went to the same schools, dated a lot of the same girls, joined the police academy together. Jessie went to Robbery/Homicide, while I went the less glamorous route in the Vice Squad. After a pimp said that I tried to shake him down, and I found myself kicked off the force, Jessie helped me start up the P.I. gig.  
  
I remember how supportive he was of me in those first months, when I couldn't get a client at gunpoint. Long nights at my apartment, drinking whiskey and asking my advice on cases he was working, just so I felt that I was still a cop. How when he made lead detective, he told me that it was me who made him want to be a cop, to help people. How I was his hero and that he was proud of me for not giving up. How happily jealous I was of him and his life. How happy he had been with Tara, and the plans the two of them had for the future. Most of all, I remembered how a part of me died when he did, his throat torn out by some vamp punk who he caught trying to steal his car.  
  
After the funeral, Tara came to work for me. She was as lost as I was without him, so we fell on each other for support. That support turned to real friendship, and then to love. Not that kind of love, though the thought did cross my time more then once. But Tara, for all her wisecracking and tough exterior, is simply far too sweet for me. I'd fuck it up, and I couldn't do that to her, or me for that matter. I can count on one hand the people I care about in this world, and Tara's top on the list. If she wasn't around, I'd probably end up at the bottom of a bottle so deep, I'd never get out of it. She grounds me, and I give her something to take care of. She called me a lost puppy once, and she was only keeping an eye on me till I could do it myself, or someone better came along. I don't see either one of those happening soon.  
  
A knock on my door brought me out of my trip down broken memory lane, and I realized I had tears on my face. Quickly wiping them away, I did my best to look busy. "What?" I shouted roughly at the door, my voice a little harsher then I would have liked.  
  
"Xand?" Tara poked her head in through the opening of the door, her face showing puzzlement. "You alright?  
  
"I'm fine," I mutter more to myself. "What's up?"  
  
"There's someone here to see you," she says a little slowly. "I tried the intercom, but you didn't answer." Suddenly she grins at me. "You fell asleep, didn't you?"  
  
"Yeah…I mean, I was just resting my eyes!" I sigh loudly, relieved that Tara's not going to pry to hard, though she probably think it's in defeat. "Who's the guy?" I finally ask, while Tara smiles in triumph.  
  
"Don't know. Won't give his name. Said he has 'a matter of grave importance to discuss with you'. He's British. You didn't take a leak on their consulate again, did you?"  
  
"No. And I'd thank you not to mention that again! I was drunk!"  
  
"Fine. Then I'll show him in then." Giving me a smirk, Tara closes the door. "Mr. Harris will you now, sir." I hear through the door.  
  
I quickly close the checkbook and clumsily push the bills into my desk. I've cleared my desk just in time, as the door opens and the most British man on earth enters my office. The guy is dress in a three-piece, dark blue, pinstripe suit. He's wearing gold-rimmed glasses and is carrying an umbrella. There's not a cloud in the sky and he's got the most impressive umbrella I've ever set eyes on. The thing looks big enough to keep a family of four dry in a monsoon. "Good day, Mr. Harris," he says as he closes the door to my office, his accent making the words sound like they were carved in diamond. "My name is Rupert Giles." He takes a seat in one of the two guest chairs in front of my desk and hands me his card.  
  
I glance at the business card and then have to stop to read it, as it has more information then the phone book. To clarify, the guy sitting across from me is Sir Rupert Giles, Duke of Oxford, Chief Representative of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth the Second, in the State of California, United States of America. It also had the phone number to his office. "Uh…pleased to meet you Mr. Giles. I mean Sir Giles." Okay, I was a little stunned to find such an illustrious figure sitting in my office.  
  
"Please, Mr. Harris," the British man said, giving me a polite smile. "You can dispense with the titles. You may call me Rupert if you wish."  
  
"Uh, sure thing…Rupert." I quickly tried regaining my sense of cool, reminding myself that this guy was in my office. "What can I do for you?"  
  
"You were recommended to me by a mutual acquaintance I believe, Mr. Robert Reich." Sir Giles' smile changed slightly, indicating that Bobbie Reich was not his best friend in the whole wide world. "Mr. Reich…mentioned that you had done top notch work for him, and I hope that I can procure a similar service."  
  
Bobbie Reich is an actor. Actually, that's not an apt description. Bobbie Reich is an 'action star'. Billed as the new Van Damn. A face chiseled from marble, with a body to match. In his movies the body count would only be matched by the number of shots they took of his bare ass. He always kills the bad guy and always gets the girl. The 'top notch work' I did for him consisted of getting a videotape of him doing something he shouldn't have with a 17-year old. It took 2 weeks, and 4 broken ribs for me to get said tape away from the people who had it. They had planned to blackmail Bobbie or sell it to the tabloids, I'm not sure which. Either way, it turned out that big ol' macho Bobbie Reich is in the closet. The tape showed, and hell yes I watch the tape. So did Tara. Did I mention the broken ribs? Anyway, the 17-year old on the tape was a rather famous member of a rather famous 'boyband'. And, I found out later, that I was actually working for his studio, which was terrified that if the tape got out, it would ruin their boy's image. Fucking studios.  
  
"Listen, Sir…Rupert. I'm flattered that such a distinguished man as yourself would come to me with you 'problem', but after Mr. Reich's case, I made myself a promise that I wasn't going to put my head on the block to cover someone's rep." I feel pretty good when the Brit looks shocked. Probably surprised that I'm not bowing to him. "So, if you want someone to get back your dirty laundry, find someone else."  
  
His Dukeship stares at me with his mouth open for about 10 seconds. And then "Mr. Harris, I'm quite sure I don't know what you are talking about!" It suddenly hit me that my friend from England was not here about getting a home made porn tape back. "I was told by Mr. Reich that you had retrieved a stolen valuable for him. That is all. Now, if you do not do that anymore, I apologize for wasting your time and I will bid you a good day!"  
  
The man had barely gotten up before I had rounded the desk and pushed him a bit roughly back down. "Uh…I'm sorry. I do 'retrieve stolen valuables'. I do do that! It's just…the motives behind Mr. Reich's case…left a bad taste in my mouth." I realized I was boarding on babbling, and did my best to calm myself. "Again, I'm sorry if I jumped to a conclusion about your business. If you tell me exactly what you need me to do, I'm sure I'll be able to help you."  
  
I'm all about grace under pressure.  
  
"I accept you apology," Sir Giles said after staring at me for a minute. "I do not know what you retrieved for Mr. Reich, and frankly I do not care. All I know is that he was very satisfied by your work, and that I confirmed it through other sources after the fact. I was told that you were a professional of the highest quality, and that your desecration was beyond reproach. And I tell you all this not to flatter you, but to make clear that I have certain expectations if we are to conduct business together, and that if you are not prepared to meet them, it is best you tell me now. I am not the sort of man who enjoys wasting his time and energy. And to be totally honest Mr. Harris, I am not the sort of man YOU would want to waste the time and energy of."  
  
Now, I haven't been around all that many English nobles before. Actually, His Lordship in front of me was the first. So maybe they all have the knack of complementing you, insulting you and threatening you all in the same breath. Either way, I was duly impressed. And insulted. And more then a little pissed off.  
  
"Sir Rupert, I know what I can do and I know what I can't. I'm no bragget, and if I can't do what you need done, I'll let you know. I ain't in the business of dickin' people around, but if you want to walk out of here right now, go ahead. I don't take well to threats, especially from uptight blue bloods that walk into MY office, expecting MY help, and then give ME shit. I'm not some employee that you can give a hard time when you're in a mood. I AM a professional. If we do business together, I want you to know that. I am not at you're beck and call, and if you're not straight with me, I will walk. No refunds."  
  
Okay, I didn't mean to come on that strong. I was pissed off, sure. This guy walks into my place, flashes his card, drops a name and expects me to kiss his ass? Not likely. I took the guy as the type of person used to getting what they want, and getting it with a smile. I don't smile.  
  
Now, I expected that a few things from Her Majesty's buddy. A tirade. For him to walk out. At most, a stiff explanation of what he wanted. What I didn't expect was him to laugh like I he was watching a Bob Hope special and grin at me like I was his best friend. "Splendid! Mr. Harris, you are exactly what I am looking for. I thank you for your honesty and your frankness. I do believe that you can help me with my problem, and I am sure that you will do so with the utmost discretion and professionalism."  
  
"Uh, thanks." This guy was throwing me. First he's all Sir Duke of Neverneverland, high and might Brit. Now he's patting me on the back, treating me like the big dog. Weird. "Why don't you tell me what your problem is, and then we can talk about how we can fix it, and how much it's going to cost you for me to fix it."  
  
Still smiling, Sir Rupert Giles mentioned for the first time, the name of the thing that would turn my world inside out and upside down. "I need you to retrieve The Slayer for me." 


	2. Chapter 2

"What the hell is a 'Slayer'?" I ask Englishman.  
  
"Not 'a' Slayer, but 'THE Slayer'!" Sir Giles is excited. Very excited. It doesn't look well on him. A man that looks like he does should not smile in that way. The odd grin, sure. Smirking is expectable. Even a rare toothy grin for the tabloids would be fine. Excitement, bordering on giddiness just looks downright odd on him. "It is a very ancient, very valuable artifact, dating back to before the birth Christ."  
  
Art? The only Art I know is the grease monkey that keeps Lucy purring like a kitten. "Okay it's a piece of old art," I say. I lean back into my chair and begin to roll a cigarette, offering my guest one. He declines, but takes a pipe out of his coat and begins to fill it with practiced ease. Of course. "So…what's this Slayer look like? "  
  
Sir Giles looks gives me an annoyed look as he lights his pipe, a cloud of fragrant smoke billowing from the end. "The Slayer is not simply 'a piece of old art'! It is a relic! A priceless relic! Only the Ark of the Covenant is more sought after. And like the Ark, the Slayer is rumored to have fantastic powers."  
  
The Duke was practically foaming at the mouth by this point. I must have looked unimpressed for some unknown reason, cause my distinguished client calmed himself. "Allow me to give you a brief history lesson, if I may." Not waiting for me to protest strongly that I hate history unless Mel Gibson is directing, Sir Giles continues. "As you may or may not know, vampires, demons and their elk, were not always accepted by humanity. There was a time, centuries ago, when they were only thought to be myth and products of superstition." For the record, I did know that…there was a documentary on the Discovery Channel that I was too drunk to find the remote. "Those that did know they existed hunted them, did their best to keep them in the darkness. For most amongst these hunters was the Slayer. The Chosen One. The Slayer held a sacred duty to stand between the forces of hell and humanity. Since our earliest written history, the myth of the Slayer has endured. Oh there were countless different names for him, but the theme was the same. A noble warrior, who fought the never-ending battle against the forces of darkness. Until of course, the battle did end. Whatever force brought vampires and such into the open, caused the end of the Slayer." He pauses to take a few puffs from his pipe, and I take a drag off of my smoke, in the hopes a nicotine rush will wake me up some. "According to legend, the Slayer did not used a sword or an axe, but a simple wooden stake. This weapon is now referred to as 'The Slayer'.  
  
"Wait," I say, interrupting Sir Giles. "You want me to find…an old piece of wood?" I've been sent out to find everything from paintings to lost daughters and everything in between. This would be the first time someone would pay me to find them a piece of kindling.  
  
"Mr. Harris. The Slayer is much more then an old piece of wood!" I think I may have pissed him off again. "This artifact is said to have extraordinary powers. That the man who carried it with him was unkillable. That it could heal fatal wounds with its touch. That any man who had it with him was undefeatable!" That darn look of disbelief must have shown up again, because the man who I was starting to call Supergeek, rolled his eyes at me. Yeah! At me! "This is of course nonsense. It is simply a historical relic. Like Excalibur or the Sword of God, it shrouded in the fantastic simply because no scholar has ever seen it. The Slayer is no different. Yet like the others, the Slayer would be a priceless addition to any museum on earth!"  
  
"Or a private collector," I put in, which earns me a sly grin from Sir Giles.  
  
"Or a private collector, yes." Leaning back in his chair, the Queen's Man in Sunnydale regarded me with a seriousness that looks more in place on him then the borderline rabid excitement that he showed moments before. "While I admit that I have a personal interest in acquiring the Slayer, it will, when the tale is finished, end up in a museum. Probably in London, if I have a say in it."  
  
"After a lengthy stay at your home, where you can watch all your friends and associates turn green with envy…"  
  
"Quite," Sir Giles replies somewhat stiffly. "I would not shy away from the spotlight that the unearthing of the Slayer would bring upon me. My reputation would be greatly enhanced, and my future after my time in Her Majesty's Service would be assured. I never claimed to be doing this for purely unselfish reasons."  
  
What a novelty! Someone was being straight with me! "So, you get Mr. Pointy, become British Historian of the Century, and maybe hit the lecture circuit, with a nice cozy deanship at some posh college back in England."  
  
"One would hope, yes. Mr. Harris, I believe I have been clear enough for my motivations for wanting to acquire this artifact." Sir Giles leans forward and stares hard at me from across my desk. "Will you take the case?"  
  
"I got a few questions first," I tell him, as I start work on rolling another cigarette. "First, what makes you think that this thing is in Sunnydale?"  
  
"Ah!" The Brit says, nodding. "I have been searching for the Slayer for some time now. It's been a hobby of mine for years. I have followed it through history from the fall of Constantinople through to the present day. The last official recorded holders were the Vatican. It was stolen from their vaults in 1648, and has wound its way through Europe and Asia Minor and finally America. I got a lead a few weeks ago that an antique dealer in Sunnydale had bought it, probably unknowingly, from auction in New York. It was supposed to arrive 3 days ago, but the truck that carried was hijacked. The driver had his head torn off, and the truck was looted for anything of value."  
  
I was already taking notes. "Was the truck insured?"  
  
"I would imagine so," Sir Giles answers slowly. Finally his eyes light up. "You think perhaps the antique dealer staged the robbery for the insurance money?"  
  
"Wouldn't be the first time," I say, making a note to get the antique dealer's name and check him out. "Second question, if someone did steal this thing with hopes to sell it, you know anyone in town with the juice to buy it?"  
  
"Oh…there are any number of people in Sunnydale who would sell their soul to get their hands on the Slayer." Sir Giles appears to give it serious thought. "I would like to make some calls, but I'm sure I could have a list of perhaps the top three, by this evening. You see, while many could afford to buy it, the number of people who risk prosecution to buy it after it was stolen in such a bloody manner…well, I'd like to think that they are few."  
  
"You'd be surprised," I mutter. The selective blindness and nativity of the wealthy never ceases to amaze me. I mean, why do they think that because they have more money then God, that they're bound to act so differently then anyone else? If anything, the rich are more prone fuck with the law and people, because they think their money gives them protection. And frankly, it usually does. "Alright…do you have any idea what this thing is supposed to look like? Cause asking people if they've seen an old pointy stick lying around isn't going to cut it."  
  
"Yes, I'd imagine not." The Duke stood up and rounded my desk, his hand going inside of his jacket. I usually don't react well to people I don't know doing that, but I doubted that Sir Giles was about to pop a cap in my ass. "I took the liberty of bringing this." Standing beside me, he removed a folded piece of paper out of his jacket and unfolded on my desk. "This is a photocopy of a page from the Diary of Pope Innocent II. He was Pope at the time the Slayer came into the Church's possession. It is the only universally recognized proof that the Slayer does in fact exist."  
  
The page was mostly filled with words scrawled in some foreign language I didn't know. Which isn't surprising, because except for a few words of Spanish, I don't know any. On the upper left hand side of the page was a crude drawing of what I suspected was the Slayer. It looked like a big pointy stick. Thank you Your Holiness, I'd be lost without you. "What's all this stuff it says under it?" I was slightly surprised to learn it was an actual description. It's a miracle!  
  
"The Slayer is about half a meter in length, and made of what is probably petrified wood. It is gray-black in colour and weighs what is probably two or three pounds," Sir Giles explains over my shoulder. "It is rough to the touch, but feels more like stone then wood. It is incredibly strong. The Pope wrote that it was 'unbreakable to all but God', though that is most undoubtedly an exaggeration."  
  
"Can I keep this?" I ask, indicating the photocopy.  
  
"Of course!" The Duke exclaims loudly. Right beside me. In my ear. "Does this mean you will take the case?"  
  
"You haven't even asked my fee," I tell him, giving him a big smile to let him know he's going to get hosed.  
  
"Ah, yes." Taking his seat again, Sir Giles is all business.  
  
I appear to give it some thought. "$1000 a day. Plus expenses. No refunds. I can't guarantee that I can find your Slayer for you, but I promise that if I can't find it, it's not to be found."  
  
The Englishman stares at me for awhile, till I think that he's going to laugh in my face. "Done."  
  
I am very proud that I manage to keep my face impassive, except for a small smile and a nod of my head. "Then I'm on the case."  
  
"Excellent!" Sir Giles proclaims like he's royalty. Which I guess he is. "I have the utmost faith in your abilities Mr. Harris, and I'm sure that by the end of it all, I will be pleased." Rising from his chair, he extends his hand over my desk and I give it a good shake. "I will have all relevant information forwarded to your office by this evening, including that list we discussed and any information I have on the antique dealer who originally purchased the artifact." Placing his bowler in his head and enormous umbrella in hand, Sir Rupert Giles opens the door to my office and smiles at me. "Until we next speak, I wish you a good day and Godspeed."  
  
Through my open door, I watch as the distinguished gentleman give a small bow to Tara and then leave the office. As soon as the door closes behind him, I give a whoop and begin the ritual money dance that I do whenever we land a big money case. "Good news?" Tara asks, smiling as she watches me dance around my office.  
  
"Sweetheart," I tell her, giving her my 100-watt smile and leaning against my desk dramatically. "Sweetheart, if this case lasts a week, that vacation time you keep dreaming about will be a sweet, sweet reality."  
  
"Really?" Tara says, an eyebrow raised.  
  
"Oh yeah!" Grabbing my coat and hat, I give her a kiss on the cheek as I go past her. "Hold my calls. I'll be upstairs. I have to make a couple of calls and take a shower."  
  
This is the biggest money I'll be making in 3 years, and the idea of giving Tara and myself a break from the crap that comes into this office every other day makes me giddy. Jackpot!  
  
"Remember to shave!" I hear Tara yell at me as I climb the stairs to my apartment.  
  
The thought that I had to find an old pointy stick in a city of almost a million people didn't hit me till later.  
  
I realized only a moment after that, that I am a deeply stupid man. 


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Between the Shadows of Great Things 3/?  
  
Author: Godeater  
  
Email: godeater@sprint.ca  
  
Rating: R for language, and probably some gunplay and sexual situations later on.  
  
Summery: Hired to find an ancient artifact, Private Investigator Alexander Harris falls into a world where everyone has an agenda, nothing is black and white, and man who doesn't learn fast lives to regret it.  
  
Notes: This is an AU. Film Noir in concept. Vamps and demons exist, and everyone knows about them. They're part of society.  
  
  
  
I took that shower that I had wanted, but hadn't bothered to shave. I don't like shaving. It's such a pain in the ass. You spend all that time dragging a sharp piece of metal around your face, lose a pint of blood from nicks, and at the end of it all…you have to do it again the next day. No point as far as I can see. I say let it grow! When it becomes too much of a hassle, then you can shave again.  
  
Tara says I'm just lazy. What the hell does she know?  
  
After making myself as shiny and new as I was going to, I dressed and decided I needed a good meal while I waited for Lord Giles to forward the information he said he would. I decided to stop by the Summers House for lunch.  
  
While the Summers House may not have the best food this side of the fault line, what it lacked in culinary finesse it made up for with other things, namely the Summers Women. If they didn't exactly provide service with a smile, they usually made a meal interesting.  
  
Lucking out, I put the loner from the body shop into a spot right in front of the place.  
  
Summers House has personal problems. It can't decide whether it wants to be a bar, a steakhouse or a tearoom. The front has huge picture windows that look out onto the street. A nice view if you enjoy watching drunk college guys stumble in and out of the strip club across the street. These windows are usually shuttered with thick velvet curtains at night, letting the customers conduct their business in some form of privacy. During the day however they are left open, letting the sun pour in and fill the place with its cheery glow. During the day, the place is run as a restaurant, filled with people eating steak sandwiches and matzaball soup. The people are usually a decent sort. Accountants, lawyers, salespeople and those sorts. The kind you'd run into in any restaurant in a large city. Once night fell though, the curtains were closed, some tables were spaced further apart, and a crowd of a different sort filled the place. A shadier sort. Summers House had the dubious benefit of straddling the line that divided the 'good' part of Sunnydale and the 'bad' part. Which, at the end of the day, meant business was booming.  
  
Having missed the first crush of the lunch crowd, I snagged my favorite booth in the back. Joyce Summers, owner, operator and reigning matriarch was at her usual station behind the bar. She gave me a shake of her head and small smile, letting me know that I'd been seen and she wasn't impressed. Joyce was what I fondly referred to as a 'hard woman'. In that it was hard to impress her, anger her or…generally do anything to her, if she weren't in the mood for it. An attractive woman in her early forties, she was one of the toughest broads I'd ever met. I once saw her stare down and then toss out a vampire that'd tried to take liberties with one of her waitresses. Fang face was wide as he was tall, and he was not a short man. Joyce had stared up at him like with a glare that could melt steel, and then escorted the not-to-gentle man to the exit. Joyce Summers could be a crazy bitch when she wanted to.  
  
There was a strict no-smoking policy at Summers House. There were no signs telling you this. What happened when a would-be smoker tired to light up was that a waitress, dishwasher, of if you were really unlucky, Joyce, would pounce on you the moment a lit match or lighter came anywhere near the offending tobacco product. They'd inform you politely that they 'preferred' if you wouldn't smoke. Almost everyone who was confronted would apologize and not smoke.  
  
Except me.  
  
See, the way I saw it was that by telling me that you would 'prefer' if I didn't smoke, didn't mean that I wasn't allowed. Just that you 'preferred' that I didn't. It turned into a kind of game. Whenever I came in, the entire staff would watch me, from Joyce on down. If they saw me try to light a cigarette, the closest one would jump up and tell me that the management 'perferred if I didn't smoke, to which I would nod and give them my cigarette. If, however, I managed to light a cigarette under their watchful eyes and before I was approached, then they brought me an ashtray and glared at me. I was told that if someone caught me before I lit up, they got to leave early. A bounty on my head. I was touched.  
  
My booth was in the back, so I could see everything that happened in the place. Joyce was helping some fat guy in suit pay his bill. Two waitresses were talking at the other end of the restaurant. Everyone was momentarily distracted, so I my made my move. I had rolled a cigarette in the car before I got here, and I took it out of my coat pocket now, grabbing my zippo from the other. With a grin of victory and satisfaction, I placed the coffin nail between my lips and flicked my lighter open. "The management would prefer if you didn't smoke,"  
  
Scowling, I turned around as saw Dawn Summers, youngest of the Summer's Women, giving me a wicked grin. "Didn't your mother ever tell you that sneaking up on people is rude?"  
  
"Tough shit," the 17-year old girl said, her hand open in front of her. "Give it here."  
  
"Aw, come on!" I pleaded with her, noticing a new earring high on her right ear. The kid had enough metal on her face to set detectors off at 100 yards. "I'll give ya five bucks if you turn around for a second."  
  
"Twenty."  
  
"Six."  
  
"Fifteen."  
  
"Eight."  
  
"Ten."  
  
"Done!" I tossed Dawn a sawbuck, and lit my smoke before she could change her mind. She stands there shocked and then tries to slip the money into her pocket without her mother seeing. She fails miserably as Joyce clears her throat.  
  
"Afternoon Al," she says with a stone face, eyeing my cigarette. "You want to give my that burning weed, or do you want to leave?"  
  
"Hey, hey! I cut a deal fair and square with the spud over there. You want a piece of the action, go talk to her." Joyce had barely turned to look at Dawn before the teenager handed her the money and stalked off, muttering something about her being a communist stifling the free flow of capital. "So Joyce, what are you pushin' this afternoon?"  
  
"A smoke-free environment." She set her peepers on high, and gave me the big eye.  
  
"I heard about those. Not good for my girlish figure. How about a cheeseburger and a bourbon?"  
  
"Little early in the day for that, isn't it?"  
  
"Maybe, but I firmly believe that somewhere on this great big world of ours, someone is eating a cheeseburger and I aim to make sure he ain't eating alone."  
  
Joyce glared at my offending cigarette and me for a second, and then went off to place my order with Pablo, the Head Wizard in the kitchen.  
  
Enjoying my victory for smokers the world over, I leaned back in my plush seat and enjoyed my ten-buck cigarette. Jenny, one of the waitress brought my bourbon over, along with an ashtray, smirking at my self-satisfied grin and then moving off. As casually as I could, I looked around the restaurant for my most favorite of the Summers Women, but failed to find her. Shaking my head, I tapped some ash into the ashtray. A none-too- polite cough made me turn my head and look over my shoulder. "She's not here," Dawn said, her smile far too knowing for my comfort. "It's her day off."  
  
"Bug-off, kid," I said roughly, slightly embarrassed at being that transparent to a 17-year old girl. "If you're looking for another pay off, look elsewhere. One fleecing per visit."  
  
Ignoring my dismissal, Dawn slides into the seat across from me, a smirk planted firmly on her young face. "When ya gonna ask her out?"  
  
I give the kid my best scowl, but she just laughs it off. Dawn Summers has the same ability to belittle me with a smile that the elder ladies of the family have. Blond hair dyed purple, piercings in her eyebrows, nose, ears and only God knows where else, she's the classic 21st Century teenager in the midst's of rebellion. Blessed with the same amazing genes as her older sister and mother, she probably has half the guys at her high school eating out the palm of her hand. One of her favorite pastimes was to bother me about when I was going to work up the nerve to ask her sister out. The other was to flirt with me in front of her sister, just to bother her. "Don't you have a school to be in, right now?" I ask with a sigh, blowing a cloud of smoke above her head. It earned me a dirty look from the kid.  
  
"I'm in school," she declared with as much indignation as a girl her age can. It's a lot. "I'm at my Co-op. Learning the fabulous business of running a restaurant."  
  
I glare at her again, not really upset at all, but playing the role I've been given in this little melodrama. "Somehow, I don't think bothering me while I wait for my lunch was on the teacher approved lesson plan."  
  
Dawn simply rolls her pretty eyes at me and starts playing with a breadstick. There's silence for a minute as I enjoy the last of my smoke and put it out in the ashtray. "I'm not really bothering you am I?" Her voice is timid and she keeps her eyes focused on what must be the most fascinating breadstick ever made.  
  
"No, you're not really bothering me." The kid amazes me. One minute she acts like she'd shive me if I so much as looked at her the wrong way, the next like she's scared she's in my way. It's either a chick thing or a teenager thing. Or maybe both. "Actually, this is the second most stimulating conversation I've had today."  
  
"Yeah? What was the first?" A pierced eyebrow cocked and timidity gone.  
  
"New case."  
  
"Yeah?" I knew it would make her jump up. Dawn's always interested in whatever case I'm working on. On the one hand it's flattering to know that SOMEONE enjoys hearing about my work. It's bothersome in that she always wants to help. "Dangerous? Need any help?"  
  
"No, not dangerous." I see her frown. "Shouldn't be, anyway. Just gotta find something for someone. But, if I need help, I'll let you know."  
  
Dawn smiles at the news of her prospective employment as my sidekick. That smile curls slightly and a see a hint of pink tongue as she licks her lips. "You know I'll help you in ANY way you want me to, Xand."  
  
The blatant innuendo that laces her voice and the way she leans forward tips me off right away. I look down at my glass of bourbon and catch the distorted relocation of an all to familiar blond growing steadily. "Sorry, Dawnie." I say with an innocent smile as I raise my hand a few inches higher then her height. "You must be at least this tall to get on this ride." I get the pleasure of watching Dawn laugh as her sister happens to stand right at where my hand is, her blond head just brushing my palm.  
  
Sliding out of the booth with a deliberate twist of her hips and thrust of her body, Dawn leans up and whispers in her ear loud enough for me to hear. "Move fast, Buffy. I feel a growth spurt coming on." Giving me a wink and a smile, Dawn started back toward the bar. "And I don't think I'm the only one.."  
  
"You know, one day someone's going to catch the two of you doing that, and get the wrong idea," Buffy says as she takes her sister's former seat across from me.  
  
I met Buffy in a dusty town on the California/Nevada boarder. I'd ended up there by taking a bet while three sheets to the wind. Which I won, in case anyone cares to know. Our first introduction was me almost hitting her with my wreck of a car and then apparently chasing her after her in a drunken stumble. I have to take her word for that, because frankly, I really don't remember. What I do remember is waking up the next morning in the drunk tank, and getting shook down by some bumpkin Judge and Teutonic- looking Sheriff. Buffy had just dropped out of school and was working in the town as a telegraph operator, trying to decide how to break the news to Joyce that her eldest daughter didn't want to be a doctor.  
  
To cut a long story short, I stuck around the town long enough to get stabbed and shot at a few times, while trying to get to know young Ms. Summers. We ended up bugging out of there while the town, which was actually a front for some blood-bootlegging operation, burning down behind us. We've been 'friends' ever since.  
  
We've never officially gone out on a date, at least, neither not one either one of us would admit to. See, Buffy doesn't like my job. Thinks it's too dangerous and unhealthy for me. She's never come right out and said it, but I scare her. Me, not my job. I'm damaged goods and we both know it. Too many scars and rough edges. But she likes me anyway, and it bugs her sometimes.  
  
I like her though. A lot.  
  
She can get under my skin like nobody else, even Tara. She's tough and has nothing to prove to me, or anyone else. She's got these eyes that can make me feel like a hero or a heel, depending on her mood. Smart as a whip, but she never tries to intimidate me with it. Buffy knows so much more about so much stuff that I'm a mental midget in comparison. I know how to shoot a gun, take a punch and weird knack to get in over my head.  
  
I also make a pretty good lasagna, which I hope to show off to her one day.  
  
So, we're friends. Good friends. Not best friends, though. There's that intimacy limit that we seem to impose on each other. Don't know where it came from, but it's there none the less. Like, we try to avoid anything we know we'll disagree about. With most people that's politics, religion and sex. With us, its sex, work and sex.  
  
Aside from work, I'm not terrible interesting. I'm not good with the small talk that Buffy's really good with. Weather? Indifferent. Current events? Unless there's a case in it for me, I wouldn't know. She's reads books, sees movies, goes to art galleries. I peruse drink heavily, spend a lot of time in dark and uncomfortable places, and as I've previously mentioned, the only Art I know is the one that fixes my car.  
  
We don't have any common interests, or similar up bringing. She's from the average All-American middle class family. Until her dad died a few years ago, her family was living the American Dream. She went to College, has a stable home and people rarely try to beat her face in with shoes. I never knew my Ma, and Pops was a career soldier, when he wasn't a drunk, a gambler, and a womanizer.  
  
Damn, I worshipped him.  
  
I pretty much raised myself. Joined the Army, became a cop, and then became a PI. And for some reason I want God to explain on Judgement Day, why people often try to beat my face in with footwear.  
  
And yet, we're friends. Sometimes I think its just gratitude on her part for saving her life. Other times, I think she really likes me. Most times though, like right now, I think she just tolerates me because I'm more interesting then the fat dude in the bad tie, eating a tongue sandwich.  
  
"Jealous?" I ask mildly, flashing Dawn a grin as she pretends to listen to her mother.  
  
"Please," Buffy answers just as mildly, giving me a chilly smile. "Dawn's taste in men isn't what anyone would call…well good."  
  
"Ouch!" I put on an air of wounded pride. "I'll have you know that there are many women that consider me a fine catch!"  
  
"Yeah? Name one that isn't my sister, doesn't work for you or isn't a stripper."  
  
"Rebecca." Noticing the disbelieving look in her eyes, I feel the need to clarify. "She worked at a spa."  
  
Buffy simply snorts and gives me a long look. "How are you, anyway? You haven't been around past few days." Apparently taking note of my less then stellar appearances, she adds, "You look like shit."  
  
I take a sip of my drink to cover my grimace. Buffy's need to insult me for no apparent reason bugs me, but I've never made it an issue. Tara says I bottle stuff too much. She's probably right, but I reason that what I get from various bottles more then evens it out in the end.  
  
"Work," I say instead. "You remember what that is right? When someone who isn't related to you pays you to do something other then wait on the occasional table, while you figure out what you want to do with the rest of your life?" She immediately stiffens and I notice her eyes narrow. "Yes, that kind of work."  
  
"And since when does your 'work' require you to get tanked before dinner?" She eyes my glass of bourbon with obvious distaste.  
  
"Hey. I don't tell you how to wait tables, don't tell me how to be a private detective."  
  
"Oh, I know you're an authority on being a dick. Private and otherwise."  
  
I'm stopped from replying, which I assure you would have been both biting and stunning in its intelligence, when Jenny walks up to the table, carrying my food. "You two lovebirds want to keep it down? You're scaring the natives." Blatantly ignoring both our glares, she gives us a saucy grin and saunters off.  
  
I give a glance to Buffy, who's still glaring at her erstwhile co-worker, shrug and dig into my food. Pablo, while not a gourmet by any means, does some mean things to a cheeseburger. I'm a quarter through my burger by the time Buffy. "How are you?" she asks again, this time managing to hold back any witty observations about my appearance.  
  
"I'm good." I say finally, swallowing a mouth full of food. "Tired, but good. Got a new case this morning. If it works out, I should make enough to keep my pocket book filled for awhile, and that's after I take care of any outstanding debts."  
  
Buffy gives me a genuine smile now, which totally lights up her face. She's aware at the chronic money problems I suffer from. "That's great! What do you have to do?" Her smile loses a bit of its shine at the end, an obvious sign that she's already imagining the worst.  
  
"Nothing dangerous," I answer quickly, wanting to nip any nightmares of me being shot at by angry husbands or wives. "I have to find something. An antique. The truck that was bringing it to our fair city was robbed, and an 'interested party' has hired me to track it down."  
  
You may have noticed that I didn't mention that the driver of aforementioned truck had his head ripped off. I see no need to impart that insignificant piece of info to Buffy. For some reason, I think it would just have made her worry more.  
  
"That's it?" my blond-haired companion asked, pleasant surprise showing on her gorgeous face.  
  
"That's it. Find the thing and I'm laughing all the way to Mexico."  
  
"Vacation?"  
  
"Bet yer sweet bippy!" I wipe my mouth with a napkin and give Buffy my full attention. "Do you know, that last time I tried to go on a vacation, I ended up in lovely little Oxnard. We both remember how relaxing that was."  
  
Buffy blushes at the reminder of our fateful meeting and smiles at me. "Well at least you got a car out of it. I got nothing but my wits scared outta me."  
  
"Oh, I think you got more then that." Buffy frowns slightly in confusion and I give her a wounded look. "Me! If we'd never met, you must know how boring and tedious your life would have become."  
  
"Right," She deadpans a beautiful eyebrow arched. "Because I crave the excitement only you can bring to my life. How have I managed to get through life without you around to bring colour to an otherwise gray and drab existence?"  
  
"Hmm." I pretend to give the question serious thought, then give her a toothy smile. "I don't know. How long have you been tinkering in the Black Arts?"  
  
I have the supreme pleasure of seeing a look of total shock appear on Buffy's face. "How…" With a start she quickly looks around to see if anyone my have heard my question or seen her reaction. Dawn is nowhere in sight and Joyce is on the other side of the restaurant, chatting with Jenny. "How did you know?" she finally manages to whisper when she looks back at me.  
  
My smile turns innocent. "Oh, I have my ways. I am a detective, you know."  
  
"Cut the shit! How?"  
  
For some reason I'd managed to blunder my way into touching a nerve. Under most circumstances watching Buffy Summers squirm is a highly enjoyable pastime, but I sensed this wasn't going to be one of those times. She wasn't embarrassed, she was worried and scared. "What's the problem, Ms. Summers? It's the 21st Century. They don't burn people at the stake anymore."  
  
Leaning forward, Buffy kept her tone quiet. "Well apparently my mother missed that memo. She would absolutely flip if she knew…"  
  
"Knew what?" I give her a long look. "How long has this been a hobby of yours, Buffy?"  
  
"It's not a hobby!" She answered heatedly. I could see an excited blush making its way up her neck, knowing that it would soon enough fill her cheeks. It gave her face a fantastic glow. It was a fond wish of mine to see where exactly that blush started and watch its progress. Putting aside images of a topless, excited Buffy Summers, I did my best to pay attention to what was obviously something she was passionate about. "I had the grades and the knowledge to get into Harvard on an Occult Studies. I've been studying practical and theoretical witchcraft since I was a high school freshman."  
  
I was fascinated. Not by the hocus-pocus crap. I never had much interest or use for magic or people who believed in it. It was like brain surgeons or auto mechanics. If you weren't an authority yourself, then they could take you for a ride. I don't know how many hookers I'd met working vice who'd bought the hype and spent money on a 'protective amulet of Ra' instead of a switchblade.  
  
But I was fascinated anyway, because I didn't know this about Buffy, and I wanted to know everything about her. So instead of snorting my unbelief that they made Practical Magic a degree at Harvard, I simply gave Buffy an interested look. "I thought you were studying business at Stanford."  
  
"I was." Now Buffy leaned back and shrugged, like we were talking about the weather, or the Kings chance in the playoffs. "Mom's idea. Aside from the fact that magic freaks her out, she wanted me to get a degree in 'something I could use'."  
  
I felt my lips curl without thought. "I never thought of you as the type to back down from a fight, Buffy."  
  
She scowled at me from across the table. "You think my Mom is rough with you about smoking. You've never seen her fight for something she thinks is important." I tilt my head in acknowledgement and light another cigarette. "I caved. I went in for a business degree." Buffy's usually lovely smile turned bitter. "We all know how well that turned out."  
  
I take a drag off my cigarette and shrug. "A good sign you should have gone with your gut and done what you wanted." If anything, her scowl deepened. "But what do I know?"  
  
The look she gave me was something I could only describe as penetrating. "You still didn't answer my question. How did you know I…"  
  
"Was a witch?" I supplied with a cheeky smile when she faltered. "Observation. Your earrings are Wiccan symbols for 'Peace' and 'Fortune'. That alone isn't conclusive. They sell stuff like that at flea markets, and it don't mean squat. But throw in your 'waiting for a sign' and a tad of instinct…"  
  
:"Waiting for a sign?" she asked with obvious puzzlement.  
  
"You're not religious, in the traditional sense." I answered with a shrug. "Every time I ask you what you're going to do with your life, you act like you're in a holding pattern. You don't know, but are pretty sure you're supposed to do something." I shrug again and exhale a plume of smoke. "I don't think you're waiting for a sign from God, but you are waiting for something. A push 'on to your path'." Maybe she's surprised I could read her so well, but I ignored her look of surprise and continued. "Plus, I've met more then a few witches while working vice. Both real ones, and posers. " I smiled. "The taste you left in my mouth was someone serious about their magic."  
  
Buffy's lips turned up into a smile, probably against her better judgement. "You know, I don't think I've given you the chance to 'taste me'."  
  
My smile slipped away like water over a rock. I was tired of dancing around. My lunch was done, and my drink was gone. "Must have been a dream then." Snubbing out my smoke, I pulled myself out of the booth. "Either way, your secret is safe with me." I threw some money on the table and reached for my hat.  
  
"Xander." I felt a hand on my arm, and looked down to see Buffy looking up at me with concern. "I'm…" For a moment, I saw something on her face I didn't recognize. An apology? "I didn't mean…"  
  
I smiled and gently shrugged off her hand. "I have to get to work. Give me a call if you feel like meeting up this week." There was a flash of definite disappointment on Buffy's face. "Or if you need someone to talk to."  
  
Buffy looked up at me, concern still in her eyes. "I will. Thanks, Xander."  
  
I shrugged. "No worries." I give her one last, real smile. "I'll see ya later."  
  
I turn and make my way toward the exit. I see Dawn staring at me, worry on her face. I shoot her a reassuring smile and quickly leave the restaurant.  
  
Starting up the loaner, I put Buffy's confession and worry out of my mind for the moment. I decided to swing by the office in the hopes that Lord Giles has forwarded his leads on the antique dealer who bought 'The Slayer' and the people he thinks might have had the coin to steal it.  
  
I glance through the window of Summers House and see Buffy still sitting in our booth. While I only see her back, I notice her shoulders are slumped and her head tilted downwards, as if she's thinking of something.  
  
I hope that she does what she feels is right, and then push it all outta my mind.  
  
I have a case to work on. 


	4. Chapter 4

Walking into the office, I see Tara reading the paper. Ten'll get you twenty that it's either the horoscopes or the sports section. She reads both sections religiously everyday. Sports I can understand, but I never got the fascination with horoscopes. Someone who doesn't know you and has never even met you is going to predict how your day will go, all based on when you were born.  
  
"Delivery for you, care of the British Consulate," she says without looking up from the paper. "I left it in your office."  
  
I grunt and walk past her desk, noticing the frown on her lips as she reads the recap of the Kings game last night. There's no way in hell that they're going to make the playoffs this season, and Tara knows it. She just lives in denial. I enter my office and see a large manila envelope on my desk. Taking a seat I reach into my coat pocket and pull out the switchblade I habitually carry.  
  
What? Sunnydale can be a rough town, alright?"  
  
Slicing the top of the envelope open I pull out the papers within. Not much. A list of names and addresses. Another photocopy of The Slayer, this one in greater detail. Lord Giles scribbled some notes, mostly the dimensions of the thing and esthetics. Dear lord, even his shorthand was stiff and proper.  
  
Putting aside the pretty picture, I scanned the names. It's a short list. The name of the original buyer was the first on the list, followed by people his Lordship thought had the resources and the want to pay for it. Going over each name, I wasn't surprised to find that I didn't know a single one of them.  
  
Except one.  
  
I heard a creak and realized I was clenching my jaw so tight my teeth were ready to crack.  
  
I stared at the name and imagined his handsome, smug face starting at me, an amused smile on his lips as he walked passed me in court. "Better luck next time, Officer Harris."  
  
I saw him in the morgue, identifying a body of a girlfriend. "Such a shame, don't you think, Officer Harris. She had her whole life a head of her. Maybe even eternity." Looking at me with the knowledge that I couldn't pin it on him and taunting me with it. "She was so curious about everything. Things that she really shouldn't have involved herself in.like following a strange noise in a dark ally. Such a shame."  
  
"Don't be a stranger, Officer.I mean, Mr. Harris." Standing in a dark suit and a sad smile in another courtroom, after my badge was taken away. "Good luck with the future, Mr. Harris. I'm sure you'll land on your feet."  
  
I stared down at the sheet of paper, looking at the name as if I could turn him to dust if I looked at it long enough. I let a breath I didn't know I was holding out, forcing my body to relax. I should have known that this job was too good to be true.  
  
My life is never that easy.  
  
Sighing, I scan the list again from bottom to top until I reach the original buyer. His shop is in one of the more trendy areas of Sunnydale. Lots of galleries and antique shops. Types of places I don't make a habit of hanging around in. For some reason the smell of ill-gottin money makes me nauseous.  
  
I put both papers down on my desk and then light a cigarette. When this thing first got dropped into my lap, my gut was leaning toward insurance fraud. Guy buys a lot of worthless junk, insures it for a mint, then has it stolen. Happens ever day. Maybe the guy knew that one of the things he'd bought with this priceless relic, maybe not. If he's any kind of business man, and from his address I have to assume he is, then he's going to want to sell it, not donate to some museum. But why stop just a resale? Collecting the insurance and then selling it to a certain rich piece of slime I know, would increase his profits.  
  
On the other hand, it could be a case of out and out theft. Which didn't change who I was thinking had 'The Slayer'. He was an exploitative piece of garbage who would sell his soul for some respect. And flashing this relic around would get him a lot of respect in the society he wanted into desperately. Killing the driver of a truck and stealing it out right is a little more blunt then I would usually think of him, but hey.I wouldn't put it past him either. And he wouldn't have done it himself. His type don't get their hands dirty anymore.  
  
Unconsciously I was rolling the cigarette in-between my fingers. I looked down at the burning tip, not really seeing it. What I did see was another courtroom. A face staring at me from the defense table as I sat on the stand, his lawyer calling me a cop with a vendetta, telling the jury that I planted evidence and was lying. Smiling eyes set in an innocent face, content in the knowledge that he was going to get away again, and that I knew it before the charges were filed.  
  
Tobacco fell onto my desk as I crushed the slender cigarette tube between my fingers, ashes mixing with flakes of shredded leaf.  
  
"I can nail him," I said out loud, feeling my mouth turn up with a smile with no humor in it.  
  
I never thought I would get the chance again. Not after my badge got taken away. Not after Jessie died. But here it was. If he had this relic, this priceless piece of wood, it was dirty. Whether it was the dealer that did the deed or him, if I could nail him in the murder of the truck driver.  
  
I shook head. I had to be objective. All because he was a rich, dirty piece of shit didn't mean he did this. It meant he was my prime suspect, but like I thought when the Duke was in my office laying this all out for me, it could just be some rich snob who really doesn't care where something he wants comes from, as long as he gets it.  
  
Those types are a dime a dozen in this town. Some people can just make a call, saying they want so and so to happen. And that's it. The dominos start falling all over the city, the state or the country, depending on what they want. Those dominos could be businesses, jobs or even lives. And the person who caused it all doesn't feel a shred of guilt. Because they don't know and don't care to know what had to happen to others so they could get something they want. It's beneath them to even spare a thought about it.  
  
And I feel uncomfortable in the fact that I'm one off those dominos. Someone like Rupert Giles could have made a call or passed a note to have me hired to track down this piece of wood. It was his good luck, or bad luck depending on his view, that he picked someone who still had a shred of dignity and small passing respect for the law. He could have easily walked into to some other hard on his luck detective, thrown a pile of money on his desk and said "Get me this" and it would have begun. Dominos. Falling one by one.  
  
Well I may be a domino in this, but that doesn't mean I have to knock over anyone else to get the job done. And, if I could help it, I'm not about to let myself fall face down in the dirt for it either.  
  
Snubbing the coffin nail out, I get up and go out to the reception area. "Tara, I need checks on everyone on this list," I told her, slipping the list over the newspaper.  
  
"Expensive," she said, only giving the list a glance. I point out one name in particular, tapping it with my finger. Tara's eyes widen slightly and then turn up to look at me, a mixture of hope, fear and something else. A question, probably. "I'll call Felix right away."  
  
Felix Soho is a tool. And not just in the sense that he's a prick. He's also fat, ugly and smells like old pizza and sweat. Felix does what he would call 'background checks' on people. He, or others in his profession can, with a few clicks on a computer and a couple of phone calls, dig up ever thing you've ever done in your entire life. From something as large as your financial history, to the grade you got in finger painting in kindergarten. If there's a record of it somewhere, then men like Felix Soho can get a copy of it. With a phone call, you can have your worst enemy's life story, dirty bits included, on your desk in a day or two.  
  
You know, if I actually had a private life, I'd be pissed off about it all.  
  
"Tell him to make it a priority." I smiled when Tara's eyes widened again, this time trying to calculate how much this was all going to cost. "And make sure you keep the bill for Lord Giles expense report."  
  
Tara's lips quirked into a smile. "Sure thing, boss."  
  
While she's looking up Felix's number in her Rolodex, I jot down the original buy's name and address on a scrap of paper. "Alright honey, I'm off. You get the ball rolling with Felix and then take the rest of the day off." I gave her a crooked grin when she looked up at me. "Go get your hair done or something. Treat yourself."  
  
"I know ya have you're blood up, Xand, but where's this new found generosity coming from?"  
  
I blink and give her a sweet smile. "From Lord Giles, of course! Remember to get a receipt, sweets."  
  
Tara gives me a scandalized look, but there's obviously more then a bit of good humor in her eyes. "You, Mr. Harris, are a bad man!"  
  
"Damn straight," I say over my shoulder as I leave the office.  
  
Starting the car, I point it toward uptown where I have an antique dealer, a Mr. Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, to rake over the coals. 


End file.
